A Dangerous Masquerade (12 page)

             
‘He is like an evil spider, his web binds and traps men who give into unworthy urges and then find themselves being made to pay far more than they dreamed.  Renard is a depraved creature without a shred of decency in him.   He must be found and given to some people who will know what to do with him.’

             
‘I’d break his neck with my bare hands.’

             
‘Then some of his secrets would never be discovered.  There are people who know how to coax such secrets from him…’ Moraven’s mouth curled in disgust.  ‘He would be better off dead, believe me – but they want him alive. Perhaps to be certain he cannot spill secrets into the wrong ears before they dispatch him to his maker.’

             
Ferdi shuddered and crossed himself.  ‘Rather him than me, captain.  I reckon them what give the orders ain’t much better than Renard.’

             
‘In some respects you are not far wrong,’ Moraven replied grimly.  ‘Which is why this will be our last mission for them – after that you will be disbanded but still work for me on my estates, if you wish?’

             
There was a murmur of satisfaction amongst his men.  Moraven smiled as they crossed the street.  They were all looking forward to this particular mission, because one or two happened to be fathers themselves.  He hoped they would remember his orders but in the circumstances he wouldn’t blame them if they shot first and asked questions after…

‘There is no need to wait up for the marquis,’ Constance said.  ‘Moraven has a key and he will put the bolts on when he returns, Heloise.  I shall see to his supper myself.’

             
‘Just be careful what you’re doing,’ Heloise grumbled.  ‘Do not trust him too far, my lady.  He will hurt you before he’s done, I’m sure of it.’

             
‘You may be right,’ Constance admitted, ‘but I have decided to trust him.  I like him and he has been good to the nuns.  Besides, if the comtesse does not return to claim her inheritance soon I must leave this house.  The comte’s relatives will wonder why I have not claimed his property.  If they become suspicious they will think me a thief or worse.’

             
‘Have I not warned you to leave here and return to England?  You could leave word for the comtesse should she return – but I think she died that night.  Why would she go without a word to you?  If you ask me he killed her and disposed of her body.  I saw him leave late that night…’

             
‘You did not tell me.’ Constance looked at her in alarm.  ‘Was he carrying anything – her body?’

             
‘Not that I saw but his body servant had brought round the coach and he carried something into it that might have been a trunk.’

             
‘The comte went away for three days if you recall.  He was angry to find Madeline gone when he returned.’

             
‘Or pretended to be,’ Heloise said darkly.

             
‘Please, do not say such things.  I am sure she is alive.  I think she took  just a few precious things and fled with someone…’  Constance smiled as she saw Heloise mutter and shake her head as she picked up a glass of hot milk and her chamberstick. 

             
Heloise was sure that her mistress had been murdered, but Constance knew that several favourite items had gone that night.  A dead woman could not take her mother’s pearls to the grave with her – but where was she?  She must know it was safe to return now that the comte was dead.  Why did she not come to claim her jewels?

             
Pushing the problem to the back of her mind, Constance’s thoughts turned to the marquis.  Where was he and what kind of business had taken him away since his brief visit that morning?  She knew that his own work was dangerous enough, but this business with the children had placed him in even more danger.  If Renard knew that he was helping him them…

             
Constance shook her head.  Something told her that it was not the first time Moraven had faced such dangers.  He had been forged in white-hot fire and there was steel at his core.  She’d seen something in his eyes when he’d told her not to wait up for him but leave his supper in the kitchen which had sent a chill down his spine.  Yet her instincts told her he would return – and would he then expect to claim her?

             
A little shiver ran down her spine.  She trembled, though she was not certain whether she felt fear or anticipation.  After preparing a light supper, she placed it under covers on the table so that if there were mice about it would be safe from their inquisitive noses and sharp teeth.

             
It was growing late and it seemed he would not return before midnight.  Taking a lighted candle, she left the kitchen and went upstairs, but at the top she hesitated.  Instead of going to her own room, she turned in the direction of one of the best guest chambers, which she knew Moraven had made his own.  He had used the comte’s things when he stayed that first night, but since then his own belongings had been placed in the room.  Heloise had cleaned it for him once, but Constance had not been inside.  Now her curiosity was aroused.

             
She lingered at the door a moment, then opened it and went inside, lighting some of the candles before placing her chamberstick on the dressing chest.  His travelling chest was a magnificent brassbound mahogany trunk with many drawers and cavities.  Expensive, she judged, and also secure.  It was locked with a heavy clasp, which would take a strong man some time to pry open.  She had no intention of doing so, though she wondered at the secrets hidden inside – or was it usually packed with valuables?

             
On the dressing chest a variety of silver items had been placed casually in no particular order: brushes, combs, a pot of pomade, which, when she opened it had a fresh citrus smell – and a leather case of silver-gilt buttons. Various studs and pins lay scattered in little gilt trays and a decanter of brandy stood on the chest, a used glass beside it. 

             
Constance trailed her fingers over the various items, but there was nothing very different to the items her father had once used; nothing to give a clue to the owner’s character.  A striped silk dressing gown lay carelessly over a chair and some boots lay abandoned by the bed as if kicked off in disgust.  A smile touched her mouth for she could see they needed a good clean.  She would do them in the morning.  Heloise had taken his linen to be washed and Constance would iron his shirts – it was a task she enjoyed and he would hardly notice for at home he must have maids to do all these things.

             
A spare coat had been hung over the back of a chair but the rest of Moraven’s things must remain in his travelling box.  There were no miniatures of his family, no papers or books or anything that would lead her to believe that he felt at home here.  It was temporary accommodation and his few possessions could be thrown together and moved out within minutes.

             
She knew so little about him.  Did he always live like this – or was he intending to leave the minute his business was done?  For a moment a wave of loneliness swept over her.  She had made him aware that she did not wish to be his mistress but his lover – had she demanded too much of a man, it seemed had few ties?

             
What would she do if he went away and left her?

             
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Constance ran her hand over the pillow where his head had lain.  She smiled and lay back, inhaling the scent of him.  At least here she had found the essence of the man.

             
She was feeling sleepy.  She ought to get up and go to her own room and yet…a smile touched her mouth.  It was the bold adventuress that had taken his interest, the lady in black who had stolen his purse.  That woman would not slink back to her own room, she would wait here for her man.

             
Standing up, Constance removed her gown and then slid between the sheets wearing only her linen shift.  She lay her head on his pillow and laughed softly in her throat.  He would not think her meek or mild if he found her like this – waiting for him in his bed.

It was early morning when Moraven let himself into the kitchen.  He found the supper Constance had prepared earlier and bit into one of the small delicious pasties, eating two and then drinking some of the red wine she had left ready for him.  He was hungry and weary.  The night had been long but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he thought of the outcome.  They had taken Renard’s bullies by surprise and though three had put up a fight, one had surrendered easily.  He had confessed all he knew with the merest threat of violence and his comrades had met a quick death.  It had been clean, efficient and swiftly over.  In all ten children had been rescued and transferred to the care of the nuns, who were this night in a new safe house in Paris.  Two older girls had refused to accept his help and run off into the night.  Moraven had known there was little he could do for them; in their case it was too late to begin again.  Both had been corrupted in mind and body and he could do no more than offer money, which had been snatched in haste before they fled.

             
He swore as he poured himself another glass of wine.  There was too much evil in the world.  One man and his friends could not mend it all.  For every child the nuns rescued there would be another lost.  Like most big cities, Paris had its bright avenues and rich, healthy population and then there were the dark alleys where only the lost, depraved or the foolish ever ventured.  Life was cruel at this end of the spectrum and much as he hated what he’d seen, he knew he could not cure its evils.  Even if he cut off the gorgon’s head another would likely spring up in its place.

             
His vendetta against Renard had begun as a personal thing but his motives had changed after he met Constance and learned her story.  His lips curved in a sneer of disgust as he thought of his superiors and what they would make of the information he’d sent them.  He had proof now that Renard was also a man known in polite circles as the Comte Devallier.  The fourth rogue had told them of several places where he might be found and had since been handed to the ‘hounds’ for further questioning, which might not be as clean or clinical as the treatment he’d received at Moraven’s hands.

             
Now it was only a matter of time before Renard was forced into the open.  His avenues of escape were being closed off one by one and he would turn like a wounded beast to fight.  Moraven hoped that his enemy would come after him personally.  If the hounds found him first it would be a less than satisfactory ending to the saga that had begun in Spain, and yet it might be for the best.  The nuns and their children would be safe for the moment, because Renard would leave a vacuum that would not immediately be filled.  Time enough for them to be settled away from the city, where the children could learn to appreciate fresh air and good food.

             
Moraven’s thoughts began to turn to other things for the first time in days.  What was he to do about Constance?  Her beauty and her spirit had touched him in a way few other women ever had but for a moment that morning she had seemed soft and submissive, a woman of breeding who would need gentle nurturing.  He was not the man for that.  At best his past was shady, at worst it would not bear scrutiny.

             
He might just risk taking on an adventuress who could stand up to him and would not turn away in disgust if she learned of certain things he’d done in the name of justice and national security – but a gentle lady would find him unbearable to live with.  His nature could not be hidden and he would break her all too soon.

             
If Constance were indeed the innocent she claimed, he would be wronging her in making her his mistress, though the thought of having her in his bed, of burying himself in her soft flesh and taking his fill of her was pleasant. Nay, it was more, had become a burning need that he had barely controlled these past days.

             
His lover…she wanted to be his lover.  Well, he could live with that, because he’d always known she wasn’t like the grasping opera dancers who cared only for the jewels he gave them.  Constance would give us much as she took, he knew that for certain.  He just needed to be sure that she was strong enough to bear what he truly was, for he feared his nature would not change even if he willed it – and his past would always be there like a brooding shadow hanging over all he did.

             
He had relatives enough to provide a clutch of heirs between them.  Moraven had no pressing need to marry a girl of good birth and make half a dozen heirs.  If he chose he was free to live his own life, to live with a woman he admired and wanted more than any other he’d known.  He would be her lover if she wished it – providing she understood him for what he was and could bear it. Why subject her to the scorn and scrutiny she would receive as his wife?  Those who did not think her an adventuress would pity her for being the wife of a man who was generally despised, though welcomed in most houses for his name and his fortune.  She would do much better to have her own house and the freedom to lock the door on him if she chose.